


The Battle Line

by Sineala



Category: The Eagle | Eagle of the Ninth (2011)
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Armor, BDSM, Consensual Violence, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Canon, Post-Movie(s), Roleplay, Uniforms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-24
Updated: 2012-04-24
Packaged: 2017-11-04 05:56:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,324
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/390517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sineala/pseuds/Sineala
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After an encounter with soldiers at their farm leaves Esca unsettled, Marcus dons his old armor and offers himself up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Battle Line

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Линия фронта](https://archiveofourown.org/works/749572) by [Anerin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anerin/pseuds/Anerin)



> I originally wrote this for the Fanmedia Challenge a long time ago and have only now gotten up the nerve to post it. Thanks to Lishan for fixing the emotional arc of the story, Carmarthen for making me look up Roman military diplomas a lot, and several people I cannot currently remember because this was a while ago (Lishan? Carmarthen? Piscaria? Savvy?) for suggesting things that should happen in this story.
> 
> Here are the warnings as they appear on LJ/DW: Consensual BDSM (including blows to the face), emotionally-intense roleplaying, failure to negotiate adequately (but no lasting harm).

It was a bright, clear fall day when the tax-collectors came.

Marcus saw them first, three riders making their way down the track at the edges of the farm, and at first he didn't understand. He was a citizen, of course, and Esca was as well, now, by special dispensation -- it did not sit well to have one of the men who found the Eagle be only a freedman. And so they owed nothing in the annual poll tax, not this year, not any year.

Then, as they rode closer, Marcus began to see them more clearly -- a fat official in the middle, flanked by two soldiers, their armor sparkling in the sun -- and he realized. They certainly had the lists of citizens from the magistrate, and they were here comparing. There was no harm in that. They would come, they would talk, and they would be on their way.

"What is that?" Esca tilted his head at the sight, curious.

"The tax-men, I would think," Marcus said, and he watched as Esca tensed. He no doubt only had unhappy memories of their visits. Well, this one was like to be far less painful. "It is that time of year."

Esca's nostrils flared. 

"You are a citizen now," Marcus reminded him, and he reached out for Esca's hand, to reassure him. It was perhaps a little daring to do so in the day, out in the light, with officials about to visit, but he felt that Esca needed something from him, and he only hoped he could give it. "Once they see we are both on the register, I am sure they will be gone."

Esca narrowed his eyes. "If you say so." He nodded as he spoke, but his voice was dry and dubious. Esca, Marcus had found, tended to distrust most Romans on principle; Marcus was grateful to be the exception. He had earned that in Caledonia.

And then he dropped Esca's hand, for the riders were nearly upon them.

* * *

"Hail," Marcus called out politely, as the three dismounted -- the fat old tax-collector first, and then behind him the two soldiers, who stood lazily, not quite at attention, holding their horses' reins.

The official nodded. "Hail."

One of the men wiped sweat off his forehead, under the edge of his helmet, and the other adjusted his sword-belt. A twinge of sympathy passed through Marcus; he had had this duty once or twice in the legions, of escorting the tax-men, and a thankless job it was, always full of angry men ranting that the tax was unfair, that they could not owe that, surely. 

And next to him Esca was still tight with tension, like a drawn bow; he had no doubt had the same experience from the other side.

"You can water your beasts, if you like," said Marcus, gesturing to the trough, "but you shouldn't need to stay here long. We're citizens, my friend and I."

After the three had led their horses to the water, the man's face cracked in a huge pleased smile; this would surely make his day easier. "Oh, excellent," he said, turning back to his saddle-bags and pulling out a pair of writing-tablets. "If you just give me your names, we can be on our way."

"Marcus Flavius Aquila," he said, and then, not knowing what information the man might have had, added the rest. "Equestrian order, from Etruria, served in the Tenth Legion Fretensis in Judaea. Most recently centurion of the Fourth Cohort of Gauls, attached to the Second Legion Augusta, at Isca, discharged honorably." 

He held out his hand so the man could see his soldier's-mark, and the man hmmed and nodded and made a mark on the tablet with his stylus. 

"Yes, excellent, centurion, we have you. And your companion?"

The man looked over at Esca and blinked, surprised, then said... nothing. Marcus knew what he saw -- Esca was in braccae and a short tunic, sleeveless, the twining ink on his arm prominently visible. No Roman looked like him. Marcus would not blame anyone for being skeptical, but surely the matter would sort itself out.

"His name is Esca. Son of Cunoval." Marcus cut in before Esca could say anything; he wasn't sure what Esca would say, and he did not want Esca to be unkind to these men. "And he is a citizen, I assure you. He was my slave and would have been my freedman, but the emperor himself gave him proper citizenship. He is on the rolls."

One of the soldiers raised his eyebrows at that. "A Briton?" he said, laughing. "With citizenship? Out here?"

Esca's head tilted up, a defiant, obstinate look that Marcus was all too familiar with, and he took a step closer to the soldiers. "Is there a problem with that?" His voice was hard and cold, every word precisely enunciated.

It was perhaps unexpected that Esca was a citizen, Marcus knew, but it was not impossible; the Britons were not all peregrini, after all.

The second soldier ground the butt of his spear into the earth and pulled himself up taller -- he was already taller than Esca -- and was trying, Marcus saw, to intimidate him by his size, by his fine armor, by the crest of his helm. _I am Roman_ , his stance said. _I am Roman and you are nothing._

Marcus had stood like that, once.

He knew it would not frighten Esca.

And the first soldier laughed again. "Well, your friend Aquila didn't take you to Verulamium and marry you, now, did he?"

"No," the other man said, joining in the laughter, "I'm sure a freedman's _duties_ were quite enough for him."

It was a coarse joke, and worse because -- well, what he and Esca did in bed was certainly not the business of anyone, much less these two strangers. But Marcus breathed in and out, calming himself, and he watched in horror as Esca's hands tightened into fists.

"Esca, no!" he said, reaching for him, and then he whispered the rest in the broken British that Esca had been teaching him these months, the language these men did not know: "It's not worth it."

"My honor is not worth it?" Esca returned, and his face was pale and drawn, his fists still clenched.

Marcus did not quite touch Esca. He dared not; he did not know if Esca would hit him instead, or-- or--

But he was standing now between Esca and the soldiers. "They mean nothing," Marcus whispered, still in British, still holding out his hands. "They will be gone soon, if we make no trouble. Please. You are a thousand times better than they are. Be the better man now."

Esca stared at him for long moments and-- dropped his arms to his sides, relaxing his hands. Good.

With that taken care of, Marcus turned back to the soldiers. "It is an unusual situation, I will admit, but he is a citizen and on the list."

The official stared at the tablets, mouthing the names to himself, and was about to speak, when one of the soldiers laughed again.

"Ah, they make errors all the time," said the man, lazily, reaching up a hand to scratch at his neck, under his scarf. "Surely you have some sort of proof?"

"That won't be necessary," the official said, holding out one of the tablets. "Here, here he is, there's an Esca right here--"

The second soldier snorted. "And who's to say the fellow at the next farm won't be the real Esca, and this one a liar?" With that, he planted his spear-butt again in the dirt and stared. The meaning was clear: they were not leaving, not until they saw some evidence that satisfied them.

"Esca," Marcus said in an undertone, "your diploma is inside, in the chest in the corner, at the top." That would convince them, if nothing else. It had to.

When he glanced back, Esca was standing perfectly still, a statue of the coldest marble. "I don't take orders from you any longer, Marcus," he said in British, and the barely-suppressed rage and pain in his words, in his shaking voice, was horrible to hear.

"It isn't an order," he said, hastily, in the same language. He would have fetched the thing himself, to spare Esca the indignity, but he certainly did not want to leave Esca alone with these men. Not like this. "Please. It is only a good idea. Show them it, and they will leave, they will go, I promise."

Esca's glare was piercing, an arrow, a thrown knife -- but he turned and disappeared into the house.

Marcus finally took a breath as the weight on his chest lifted. It would be well.

The second soldier smirked a little. "Your friend's awfully ill-mannered, eh?"

Anger ran through him, then, wild and unreasoning, but he knew it was only the barest echo of what Esca must be feeling. How could these men stand here and bait them, taunt them, safe behind their authority?

"He is my _friend_ ," Marcus snapped, hotly, "and I'll thank you not to insult him."

The man shrugged. "Far be it for me to question your taste in friends, centurion." And he gave a little leer as he said "friends," the same look he had given to Esca earlier, implying it without quite saying it, intimating ugliness, wrongness, perversion.

_We are none of those things_ , he wanted to say, thinking of Esca's smile, his kisses, his laughter, the beauty of him in the firelight, the way their bodies fit together as though the gods had made them just so, each one for the other. _You will never understand._ But he pressed his lips tight and said nothing.

He was spared having to reply at all by Esca returning, bronze diploma clutched in his hands.

"Here," Esca said, curtly, holding the tablet forth, while Marcus and the three men gathered around him in the sunshine. "Marcus, you show them where it says my name."

It was a thing very like a military diploma, the kind that the auxiliaries received after their twenty-five years: two bronze plates were hinged together and sealed, the binding thrice passed through the holes. On one side was the decree of citizenship, with the emperor and consuls and date and so on specified, then further down: _ESCA CVNOVALI F_. Where a soldier's diploma would give the man's cohort, this said a few brief words about Esca's unique service, the return of the Eagle. The reverse had the seven seals and names of the witnesses.

"You see?" Marcus said, extending a finger to point to Esca's name. "Right here. A citizen. Everything's exactly as I said. So, if you are satisfied--"

But the soldier shook his head and smiled. It was not a nice smile, not at all.

"Break the seals."

And at that Esca looked up, a sharp motion; Marcus took a quick, surprised breath. It was ridiculous, what the soldier was asking. They had not even had to break the diploma's seals when they settled here, since everyone, even the magistrate, had known that they had made Esca a citizen. And the diploma would be near-worthless once they opened it -- the point was to compare the copy on the inside, safe from forgery and identical to the original at Rome, to the outside. Once the thing had been opened, it was not secure, and so should not be wasted. Not on this. It was not for a pair of ignorant soldiers to paw over.

"No," said Esca, and Marcus could see him tightening his jaw, a line of corded muscle standing out all down his neck.

The soldier's hand drifted slowly, almost casually down, before curling about the hilt of his dagger. "Break them."

They had no choice. _Please_ , Marcus thought, desperately. _Please, Esca._

For several long breaths, no one spoke. No one moved.

"Give me your dagger, then," Esca rasped out. His eyes blazed fire. But he was complying.

The man smirked and handed it over; Marcus watched as Esca worked the tip of the blade between the halves of the diploma, scraping against the binding until the two pieces fell open. Then he pressed both the dagger and the diploma into the soldier's hands.

"There, as you wished it," said Esca, and Marcus knew that voice, run through with the most bitter hatred. Esca had spoken thus once, throwing his father's dagger at Marcus' feet, and Marcus had never been able to forget it. He had never thought to hear it again. He had hoped he never would.

But this tone had no effect on the soldier, who only slid his dagger back into its sheath and stared for a long while at the inside of the diploma. He did not even read the words, some part of Marcus noticed; his mouth did not move. And he was certainly not comparing them to the outside.

"Everything seems to be in order." His voice was bored, but he sneered in a kind of idle pleasure, the look of a man enjoying every inch of his petty authority.

He held out the diploma, much less valuable now, and after a long while Marcus plucked it from his hand, since Esca made no move to.

The tax-collector marked off the name, and then he turned back to his mount to secure the tablets. "Very well."

He looked up at Marcus, a helpless look, as the two soldiers were readying their horses, mounting up, as if to say he hadn't wanted to do that either but could not quite bring himself to apologize.

"I trust there will be no similar problems," Marcus heard his own voice saying, icily, "if you return."

The tax-collector climbed back into his saddle with a slowness befitting his age and size. "I shouldn't think so. Good day, centurion."

With that, the three riders were gone, as quickly as they had come.

Marcus turned to see Esca, his face still white with rage as he watched them depart. Esca was shaking, a fine tremor of his limbs, a motion he could not or would not check.

"I hate them," Esca said, hoarse-voiced. "Soldiers. I hate them. I hate all of them."

At Esca's words, a thin, sharp pain ran through Marcus, like taking a breath on a cold winter's day. He knew Esca did not mean him, he knew those men had been wretched indeed -- but at the same time he had been a soldier, once. He could not quite hide the look in his eyes well enough from Esca, for Esca always saw his thoughts on his face.

"Not you," Esca said, quickly, quickly, correcting himself. "I didn't mean you. You're not one of them, Marcus."

But he was still shaking as he said it, and Marcus wondered if Esca said it only because it was what he wished he believed.

Marcus swallowed, hard. "Come, now." The tablet was heavy in his hands. "Let's go inside and put everything away, and this behind us."

* * *

Inside was not any better than outside, for Esca still trembled and would hardly meet his eyes. Marcus went to the open chest in the corner to put back what remained of Esca's diploma, and wanted to curse himself for a fool as soon as he saw it. He had been thinking only of the diploma, in the heat of the moment, and not about what else lay in the chest. For the rest of it was taken up almost entirely by his old uniform. There was the armilla he no longer wore, for he had found he did not care so much about the honors of the state. Esca's diploma had been sitting atop his formal red cloak, neatly folded, and under that the mail, padding, and greaves that he had taken such painstaking care of. His old helm and weapon-belts lay at the other end.

Oh. He had sent Esca to bring the tablet, and Esca had found this. And even though he surely knew Marcus was no longer a soldier, at that moment he must have felt surrounded by them.

"I'm sorry," Marcus said, closing the chest and rising to his feet. His own voice sounded pitiful to him. He was only one man, and he could not apologize to Esca in Rome's name, for all the things he had suffered. And even if he could, he was not sure Esca would want to hear it. "It honestly did not occur to me what else we kept there--"

Esca waved a hand to dismiss him, but his face was still taut and pale. "It is no matter. They are only things."

And that, Marcus knew, had to be a lie, one that even Esca knew was false. They were things, but they were symbols, they were Rome, no less than the Eagle had been.

"You cannot have liked to see them, at any rate."

Another shrug, and Marcus wished he could do something, anything to comfort Esca. If it had been anything else, perhaps he could have offered his body to Esca, but Esca's eyes, Esca's every movement showed rage, barely held-in, and he did not think Esca wanted to be touched now. Not by someone who owned a centurion's armor.

"It is what it is, Marcus," Esca said, and his gaze, past Marcus' shoulder, was unfocused. "It did not matter what I liked. It had to be done."

That was true enough. Marcus took one breath, then another. "Can I-- is there anything I can do that would help?"

His words earned him a look from Esca, at least, and a rueful laugh. "I don't think you want to be around me now." His tone was still harsh and clipped. "You are not them, and I should not treat you poorly only because you are here and they are not."

"You could." The words tumbled out of Marcus before he could even think about what he was saying.

Esca looked up at that, a swift sudden motion, as if Marcus had taken him by surprise. "What do you mean?"

He had to know what Marcus meant, but Marcus answered him anyway.

"You could treat me," Marcus pressed on, "however you want. However you need. Whatever you need me to be -- I can be that for you. Let me please you. Let me serve you."

It was not as if they had not played at this sort of thing before, in bed. They had discovered quite early on, to their mutual delight, that Marcus loved to accede to Esca's orders, to submit, to pretend to be lowered, just as much as Esca loved demanding it of him. And Esca might like the same thing again now; he might feel better if he knew he could push someone. He could push Marcus.

Esca's breath then was almost a gasp, a familiar sound, half-aroused, half-disbelieving. He knew what Marcus was offering, then, and he shook his head, but he was not denying that he wanted it -- no, he was denying that he should have it. "It would only be about what I want. And I am not-- I am not feeling very kind now."

"I am strong," Marcus told him, "and I can take it. I can be what you want. I want that."

Esca lifted his head, and his eyes were wide and dark with a familiar desire, but behind them was something strange and fierce, a wild, dangerous power. It was new, yes, but Marcus trusted Esca. He was still Esca, after all.

Then Esca's lips curled in a harsh, angry smile. "Why, then, well -- aren't you out of uniform, soldier?"

Oh.

It ought to have occurred to him, that this was what Esca needed. He could do this. He would do this, for Esca. Still, he could never have imagined-- if any of his fellow-soldiers ever knew about this--

"Go on," Esca prompted, his tone as shaded as if he gave a lifetime of lazy orders. And then he dropped into the nearest chair, leaning back indolently. "Put it on."

He lifted the chest lid again, realizing as he did that there was really nowhere else to change into the uniform. Esca was planning to watch him. He went hot at the thought, even as he stripped off his sleeved tunic. Esca was there, staring at him right now, and, oh, Marcus was getting hard already--

He fumbled with the tie on his braccae, two, three times, and then pushed them down as if he didn't care, as if no one else was watching--

"Oh, that's very nice," came Esca's voice, and when Marcus turned back to look Esca was sprawled across the chair, one leg across the side, unashamedly aroused and stroking himself lightly through the thin wool of his braccae.

Marcus only blushed more and turned away again; he knew he was growing even harder just from Esca's words. Esca always did this to him.

It had been a long time since he had worn his uniform, but his muscles remembered every move to put it on almost better than his mind did. The tunic, then the subarmalis, its fluttering pteruges settling lightly about his thighs, clinging, brushing here and there -- and, oh, that should not arouse him, not in the slightest, for he had worn the thing a thousand times before, but now every touch was different -- and above it the mail-shirt, which still slid easily over his head. He put the dagger at his waist, the sword-belt across his body, and stood up, leaving the rest of it in the chest. This was enough of the uniform for Esca, he judged; the rest would only get in the way.

So Marcus turned back and tilted his head high, squaring his shoulders, as if he were standing at attention for morning-muster; it was all at once deeply familiar and very very strange.

Esca lifted a hand toward the chest. "Your helmet?"

It was a heavy, bulky thing, and so he hadn't been planning to wear it, but if it made Esca happy--

When he had retrieved it and settled it on his head, he looked back to find that Esca was out of the chair now, standing before him like a commander inspecting the troops, and as Marcus tied the leather thongs under his chin he fell half-consciously back into that parade stance.

"Very nice indeed, soldier," Esca said, rewarding Marcus both with the words and a smile, and Marcus glowed at the praise.

"Thank you."

And then he moaned as Esca's hand darted out, under the pteruges, and slid along his cock, a quick tease of barely-there pressure, then gone.

Esca's smile turned sharp. "But is _that_ regulation?"

He wanted-- oh, he wanted-- more than anything, he wanted Esca's hand back, right there, and he struggled to remember how to put words together. "Depends on the commander. Sir." He thought he might have been grinning.

Unexpectedly, Esca darkened, his face closing off, and when he spoke there was anger in his voice. "Oh, do you think that's me? Do you think _I_ am your tribune?" His breathing was a harsh rasp. "Do I look like a Roman to you?"

What was this? What was going on? This was not going to be anything like before, Marcus realized, suddenly, but it was what Esca needed. He only hoped he could keep up.

"Never," whispered Marcus, his mouth dry.

That seemed to be what Esca wanted to hear, because a little bit of the tension went out of his face. And then he stepped close, wrapped one hand around Marcus' neck, and kissed him, hard, all glorious angry force and tongue and teeth until Marcus entirely forgot to breathe.

Esca shoved him back when he was done, panting, wide-eyed. "Good." He smiled. "Then what are you, soldier?"

He couldn't be asking his name.

"Yours."

Another smile. "You learn so quickly." Esca's voice was low, throaty, like a purr. "Now off with your helmet, Roman." As illustration, he hooked two fingers into the space between the helm's leather ties and Marcus's chin. His skin was warm against Marcus', there for an instant, and then he stepped back and waited.

Marcus blinked, confused, but he worked at the ties anyway. "You only now told me to put it on--"

"I did," Esca said, and his smile was wide. "But, you see, if you have your helmet on I can't hit you properly in the face."

He staggered at that, surprised. It was not that they did not play at beatings now and then, but this was his face. Esca had not struck him in the face, not since it had been real. They had never talked about it. But this was all the warning he would have. His choice.

The helmet clattered to the floor. Yes.

"On your knees." The command was snapped out, as though it were a blow itself.

And he was barely down before Esca lashed out, a heavy backhanded strike that trailed bright pain all across his cheek and jaw and left a ringing in his ears. It hurt, but the pain was beautiful, transmuted, running through him and only making him burn more in desire. He hoped it would bruise, he thought, he wanted Esca to mark him--

"Ah, perfect." There was a dark pleasure, a satisfaction in Esca's voice, and Marcus had done this to him, given this to him. Then Esca grabbed a fistful of Marcus' scarf and pulled him up. "Let me just--"

He let Esca move him about, pull his sword-belt off, take the sword off the belt. Esca could do anything he wanted. Then he moved behind Marcus and Marcus felt the leather of his belt, felt it loop about one of his wrists, then the other.

"How do you like that?"

Marcus smiled. "Very much." It was slightly uncomfortable, but then, it was supposed to be.

He tested the tie, surreptitiously, as Esca walked around to the front of him again. The belt was too broad to hold him properly, what with the way Esca had looped it; it was more the suggestion of restraint than restraint itself, for if he pulled it would slide free. Usually he liked to be bound tightly, but this time the idea that he could escape comforted him. He had a way out. It would be well.

Esca grinned again and moved back to the chair, collapsing with the same boneless sprawl, his legs wide, and Marcus knew what he would ask for next.

"Come here," said Esca, with a slow, lazy gesture, ending between his thighs. "And get on your knees."

Marcus went. It was awkward to get himself to the floor with only one good leg and his bound arms throwing off his balance. Esca, reaching out to pull him down, had to lay one arm across Marcus' chest to prevent him from completely toppling forward. Still, Marcus managed it eventually, leaning his head on Esca's leg half in submission and half to brace himself upright.

This was Marcus' very favorite thing to do, to kneel before Esca, to take him in his mouth, and he knew Esca knew it. And just thinking about it, oh, just being here was as excellent as it ever was. It was familiar. He could trust this. 

"Ah, you belong here, don't you?" Esca murmured, bringing up a hand to caress along Marcus' jaw, to his ear, and then, quite suddenly, to lock hard into his hair, hard enough to hurt, holding his head still. "You all belong here." The words were cruel now. "Tell me that."

They were playing Esca's game, still, unfamiliar and more than a little frightening, but Marcus would not have stopped for anything.

He looked up and met Esca's eyes, pale and cold as ice. "It is as you say." He could not quite bring himself to say the words as Esca had said them.

"I know all about Romans," Esca said, and the words curled about him, taunted him, as Marcus watched Esca slide his free hand to the ties of his braccae, work at the knots one-handed. "Oh, you say it is shameful, you say you will not do it, but you are always talking about it even so. You are obsessed with the very idea. Why, look at you."

Whatever he was supposed to be looking at or thinking of, Marcus had not the faintest notion. For Esca had undone his braccae and had his cock in hand now, heavy and dark, and oh, if Esca were not holding his head back--

He thought he might have been licking his lips. He shoved his face against Esca's palm, but Esca would not let him go.

"You see?" Esca laughed. "You can think of nothing else, can you not? Ask nicely and I might even let you."

Marcus felt his face growing hot. He hated to beg and loved it at the same time, and Esca always delighted in taking full advantage of him. "Please," he whispered.

"Please what?" Esca asked, his voice almost mocking, and Marcus' cock twitched against the heavy layers of wool.

He took a breath and finally summoned up the words. "Please let me suck your cock."

"Good." 

And then Esca was dragging his head forward, pushing him down, rough and harsh. Marcus could only open his mouth and take it, all of it, the pleasing heaviness settling on his tongue, filling him just as he liked it. Esca was hardly ever quite so rough with him, fucking his mouth as if he were only a mouth to be used. He liked the feel of that. It was rare for Esca to let himself go in such a manner, holding nothing back, and Marcus loved that he could do this, that he could give Esca a thing he so clearly wanted.

"Ah, you're good at that," Esca panted out, holding Marcus' head down a little harder. "Years of practice? They teach you to suck cock in the barracks, soldier?"

This would be quick, Marcus knew. Esca's breathing was becoming more ragged already, and Marcus could feel the tension in Esca's muscles, the heavier and heavier pressure of Esca's hands on his head. He knew Esca was close, and he waited for it, he craved it, and ah, if Esca had just let him touch himself he would have been right there with him. Of course Esca would come in his mouth, oh yes, please, he would make him swallow it--

But Esca, still breathing fast, pushed Marcus off him, and Marcus stared, confused, as Esca worked his fingers along the length of his cock, slid his thumb over the slick head, gasping, only a few moments from bringing himself off.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Esca said, his voice dark and not at all apologetic. "Did you think you would get something you wanted? You were wrong." His fist was moving faster, faster, and Marcus started to shy away.

"Esca, I don't underst--"

"Hold _still_ , damn you," Esca snarled at him, reaching out and digging the fingers of his free hand into the join of Marcus' neck and shoulder, a bright, unexpected snap of pain that made Marcus bite at his still-swollen lips in surprise.

Then Esca groaned, shuddered, and came, spending himself all across the front of Marcus' armor, streaking white across the links of iron, still clinging to Marcus' shoulder, an awful look in his eyes.

It had been deliberate, Marcus realized. That was what Esca had wanted.

Marcus stared. What was he supposed to say now? What was he supposed to do? Nothing could have prepared him for this, but at the same time it felt inevitable, as though he ought to have known all along that Esca wanted this. Of course Esca wanted to hurt Rome, to sully Rome, to degrade Rome. And Marcus-- had offered him Rome.

Were they done now? Would Esca smile at him, be himself again, and then let them go back to their ordinary ways? But even as Esca's breathing slowed a little, his eyes were still haunted, and Marcus knew it was not over only because Esca had come.

He tested the bonds again. Esca was still Esca. Esca would not truly hurt him. Marcus thought the words over and over, staring at Esca, who was still stroking himself, more slowly now.

"You don't," Esca began, the same imperious tone still in his voice, "think we're finished now." It wasn't a question.

Marcus shook his head. Oh, this was dangerous, he should stop, he should hate what Esca was doing. He didn't. He didn't want to. He was still hard, so aroused he could barely think, and if Esca would just let him--

"I would--" he coughed, throat hoarse-- "I would never presume."

Esca smiled then, but it was not his usual smile. This was a slow, clever thing, and he reached out to trace Marcus' lips with two fingers of his free hand. "Oh, how well-mannered you are."

Marcus tilted his head down against Esca's thigh, the best obeisance he could manage. "I serve," he said, and he felt Esca shudder against him.

"Then you will serve more."

With a quickness Marcus hadn't been expecting, Esca was pushing the chair away, was on his feet, was hauling Marcus up to stand next to him. Esca pulled his head down and kissed him, again and again, strong and a little painful, and Esca was moaning into his mouth. From the motion Marcus could feel against him, he was willing to bet Esca was still rubbing himself. He could do nothing; he was still bound.

"If you unbind me," Marcus ventured, between kisses, "I could help you with that." And he glanced down to where Esca had himself in hand, nearly as aroused already as he had been before.

A quiet laugh. "Oh, you will help. But you will not need your hands."

Esca grinned once and stepped away, then shoved him, hard, backwards, toward -- where were they? he couldn't even think! -- the table. The look in Esca's eyes was wild, savage. But before he could fall Esca had a hand on his shoulder, a hand on his hip, turning him around and pushing him down, bending him over.

Marcus barely managed to turn his head in time to avoid breaking his nose against the table, but the side of his face that hit the wood was the one Esca had backhanded him in earlier. A sensation that Marcus thought might once have been pain blossomed hot along his cheek, and he groaned, shutting his eyes. It was all feeling now.

Esca's hands were on his thighs, running over his ass, pushing up the layers of his uniform. He was exposed, hideously, wonderfully so, and Marcus smiled to himself and tried to cant his hips higher, higher.

"Oh, you're a pretty one, soldier." Esca's voice came from a little farther away; he was likely retrieving the oil. Then there was a pause, and he sounded thoughtful. "I could leave you like this, you know. Lying here, waiting. I can do whatever I want."

Marcus thought he might have moaned Esca's name.

Esca was closer now. "Though I do want to fuck you," he added, and Marcus shivered as oil-slick fingers touched him, stroked him, ah, just _there_. "Yes, I think I'll do that."

He slid two fingers in, and Marcus gasped. "Ah, yes, Esca, please--"

"Begging already?" Esca bent his fingers a little and Marcus wondered dimly if he was going to come just from this. "You'll have to wait."

Esca kept fucking him with his fingers, slowly, leisurely, as if he had nothing else he wanted to do all day, and Marcus whimpered and bit his bruised lips again. If Esca didn't-- oh, he would die, he would die if Esca didn't fuck him, and maybe Esca wasn't going to, maybe Esca was going to leave him like this, spread open and begging, where anyone could see.

All at once Esca's fingers slid out of him. Hands dug into his hips, and then there was the heavy pressure of Esca's cock pushing into him, filling him, just as he liked.

"You love this, don't you?" Esca breathed, his voice rough, and, ah, yes, he snapped his hips forward, starting to move. "Always wanted a barbarian to fuck you, eh, Roman?"

Marcus managed a nod, scraping his face against the table; he did not know if Esca saw him.

And then Esca began to fuck him in earnest, a fast brutal thing, full of life and rage, every thrust like a blow. It was wonderful even as it frightened him; Esca had never been quite like this with him before.

"Ah, I knew it," Esca rasped, "all you soldiers only ever wanted this. I should have known. Tell me. Tell me it is true."

The pleasure built in Marcus, but did not, could not crest. Not quite yet. It would not take much. One touch of Esca's hand, and Marcus would be gone. "Please, anything, it is true, please, touch me--" He was babbling now; he would say anything, anything Esca wanted if only Esca would let him come. The words did not matter. It had been so long already. He couldn't endure it.

Esca's fingers tightened on his hips and he pushed forward, rougher still. "You are mine, remember?" He hissed. "I control you. It is for me to decide. Perhaps I will come again and leave you here, used, taken, ruined--"

There was something unpleasant and hideous in Esca's voice, as if he was thinking of something not at all good.

Marcus swallowed hard. He could still get free. He could tell Esca to stop, if he needed to. But what was this? "Esca--"

"Beg me," Esca said, and his voice was cold. "Beg me, Roman."

"Please." He forced the words out over his raw throat. "Please, please, let me come."

"Why?" Esca's hands on his hips were shaking now, and there was a trembling in his voice as he thrust harder, harder with every word, and he was crying out now. " _Why should I show you mercy, Roman?_ "

This wasn't right, Marcus knew, and his stomach twisted. He was not sure if Esca knew any longer who he was, who they were--

"Please, Esca," Marcus whispered, and hoped Esca heard him. "Please, because you love me--"

And Esca stopped. There came the sound of ragged, quick breathing, a gasp, and then a quiet word. "Marcus?" Esca sounded very, very small and alone.

Something within Marcus relaxed. It was still Esca, after all. He nodded. "Yes, and if you please, Esca, _don't stop_."

And then, finally, finally, Esca wrapped his hand around his cock, two quick strokes, and he was coming, more relief than pleasure. As he sagged down onto the table, falling against his bonds, he was dimly aware of Esca groaning and spending himself again, inside him, with a few more sharp thrusts.

Esca pulled out of him quickly, and Marcus felt fingers at his wrists.

"Wait," Marcus said, and drew his arms apart, undoing the lax tie of his sword-belt before Esca could. "I can do that."

He heard a shuddering breath from somewhere above him. "Oh. It was like that from the beginning?"

Marcus nodded and started to push himself upright. "I always knew I could get free." On his feet again, he swayed a little. "Are you all right?"

"No." 

The whisper was almost too quiet for him to hear, and he turned. Esca's face was nearly gray, wet with tears. He had been crying and Marcus had not known. Esca had not wanted him to know, he realized. Esca clutched the edge of the table, shaking, looking as though he could barely stand.

"Oh, Esca--" 

Marcus reached out for him.

Esca stared at him, and a wave of something like horror passed over his features. "Marcus, your _face_." He looked miserable.

"What about it? You didn't hit me that hard." Confused, Marcus brushed his hand to his cheek; his fingertips came away sticky, wet with blood. "It must have been the table."

Esca shook his head. "I am so sorry, Marcus, I shouldn't have, we shouldn't have done this--"

"It's all right," Marcus said quickly, "I wanted it. You wanted it."

"Look what I've done to you." Esca's laugh was bitter, like a sob, and he grabbed the table as though he would fall.

Marcus stepped forward and put an arm around him. "Lie down before you hurt yourself, eh?"

"It's only fair," Esca said bleakly. "I hurt _you_." But Esca leaned into him and let Marcus lead him to the bed, where he still shivered even after Marcus pulled the blanket over him, curling up on his side.

As quickly as he could manage, Marcus cleaned himself off with a damp rag, perched himself on the edge of the bed, and started to strip out of his armor. Esca was still watching him, he knew, and with every piece he threw off -- he didn't care about wiping it clean or where it went, not any longer -- Esca relaxed fractionally against him, more and more.

"There," he said, pulling his spattered tunic over his head, naked and beginning to feel sore. "That's all of it."

Esca's hand flailed out from under the blankets and sought his. "Marcus."

He threw the heavy wool back again and slid under the coverings, next to Esca. "It's me. Only me."

The noise that came from Esca sounded like he was choking, dying, and he pushed his face against Marcus' chest as Marcus brought a hand up to stroke Esca's hair.

Esca's arms tightened around him. "Don't let me forget that. Please. If I ever-- just, please."

"I won't wear it again," he said, and he saw that Esca's eyes were glassy and wet as he lifted his head to stare at the armor. "I only thought you would feel better, if I could--" he was stammering through the rest of the sentence-- "if I could be Rome for you."

"They killed my family," Esca said, quietly, his voice more air than sound. "But you didn't."

Marcus tilted his head in acknowledgment. "I would never hurt you, not again," he murmured, feeling a little silly for saying it, but saying it nonetheless. "And I would never be as they were, as anyone was to you. I wish I could take the pain from you. Esca, you are-- you are the finest man I have known, and there is no cause for you to think ill of yourself for what we have done."

Esca's grip on him tightened still further; he was clinging to him as if he were the source of all goodness. "You won't leave?"

"Of course not." Marcus ran his hands through Esca's hair. "I will be here as long as you will have me. And if any soldier dares to make trouble for you, well, I will make him wish he had orders to muck out stables for the rest of his career."

"Good." Esca snorted a little, a sign of life.

A heavy silence settled on them, and Marcus struggled to think of something to say. Esca trusted him still, despite everything. "You were right about one thing, though."

"Oh?"

"I did learn to suck cock in the barracks."

The silence now was stunned, and then-- Esca started laughing, in surprise and delight. "Truly?"

Marcus nodded. "It wasn't half as good as with you, though."

"Flatterer," Esca said, then fell silent again. "But they didn't break your face open, did they?"

Marcus shrugged. "It heals. And I didn't love them more than anything in the world, either; what's your point?"

Esca smiled -- faintly, ever so faintly, but it was a true smile, and Marcus' heart lifted to see it. It would be well between them once more.


End file.
